


They shimmer and shine tonight/With graceful glide and brazen stride

by bigchickcannibalistic



Series: I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. [3]
Category: Miss Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Also worth saying if it wasn't completely obvious - Sherlock's super gay in this, F/F, Fluff, Undercover as a Couple, also can you tell I avoided looking up names for characters?, and super in love, besides 'brain is a closet' Sherlock wouldn't bother with most names, like rlly brief tho, maybe a smidge of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-27 02:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15015101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigchickcannibalistic/pseuds/bigchickcannibalistic
Summary: "There's a case. But at old Goldminster’s gala.”Sherlock stops at the base of the stairs, fingers tightening on the rail and face contorting with the disgusted sound leaving her lips, drawn from the depths of her chest. Old Goldminster’s stuffy, overly reliant on nostalgia, lost in a façade of century-old formalities that might as well just die for all Sherlock cares, utterly ridiculous in scope, gala is the last thing she wants to hear.But Wato in a breathtaking gown.Sherlock nearly slips on the last step.(Or the undercover at a gala AU)





	They shimmer and shine tonight/With graceful glide and brazen stride

**Author's Note:**

> This wouldn't have happened without the lovely Miss Sherlock fandom so this one's for all you guys.
> 
> Also I can't concentrate so y'all get the unedited version. Apologies for any mistakes.
> 
>  
> 
> Title is from Miracle of Sound's song 'Jet Black Dress'

_I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,_

_I love you directly without problems or pride:_

_I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,_

  * _Pablo Neruda, One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII_



 

Wato’s out running errands – again, and hopefully this time she’ll buy the correct type of flute – and no, not every tiny flute is a fife flute, even an amateur can tell the difference, and Sherlock’s not to blame for Wato’s lacklustre musical education, she gave her _pictures_ , underlined the name _explicitly_ –

The fact that Sherlock may have given Wato the wrong picture so Wato would stay out longer so Sherlock could sneak several new notebooks into her room – and also correct the proportions on this red cardinal sketch – has, quite frankly, absolutely nothing to do with it. The two are utterly unrelated. And Sherlock would deny any implications of the sort, especially implications that she is _sneaking_ into Wato’s room –

So if she jumps back at the sound of her phone vibrating on the table, it’s certainly not because she has something to hide. She doesn’t. Not one picogram of suspicious activity here.

“What do you want?” And Sherlock most definitely isn’t annoyed her brother interrupted her when she finally got the beak _just_ right. Not at all, it’s just the lack of Wato-made coffee because they ran out of coffee of all things.

(On an unrelated note: Wato-made tea is just below Wato-made coffee, even when factoring in the generous amount of honey Wato sneaks in.)

_“Not interrupting any explosive experiments, am I?”_

“No.” Sherlock glances down at the notebook, pencil tapping lightly over her bald red cardinal. _Nothing explosive anyway._ Or experimental at this point. Everything after the third drawing only solidified her hypothesis – finding sketches in her notebook bring out the most adorable smiles on Wato’s face. (Which in turn make Sherlock’s lips curl up. She’ll admit it, but since no one’s asked...)

_“Put Wato on the phone.”_

“Why?” Sherlock lodges the phone between her ear and shoulder, and goes on to finish the sketch. Wouldn’t do to tarnish her reputation by giving Wato a bald bird.

_“So I can be sure.”_

“You don’t trust me?”

_“Not to singe your hair off? No.”_

Sherlock scoffs, and finishes her sketch with a flick of the wrist. “That was one time, you busybody.”

_“I ought to sign you up for basic arithmetics.”_

“So we can go together? Aww –” Sherlock pitches her coo an octave higher, just to annoy Kento. And to get him to drop the subject. With a cursory look, and another swipe of her pencil, Sherlock closes the notebook and slips it below the other one. “She’s out. Now I presume you’re not calling because you’re jealous of my hair.”

_“Fearful, not jealous.”_

“You say pry-vacy, I say privacy –”

_“I’ve a favour to ask.”_

Sherlock hums curiously as she slips out of Wato’s room – and leaves the door ajar at exactly the right angle she found it – no, wait. Sherlock nudges the door back by a hair’s breadth. There, identical.

_“There’s a case –”_

“Naturally.”

_“But at old Goldminster’s gala.”_

Sherlock stops at the base of the stairs, fingers tightening on the rail and face contorting with the disgusted sound leaving her lips, drawn from the depths of her chest. Old Goldminster’s stuffy, overly reliant on nostalgia, lost in a façade of century-old formalities that might as well just die for all Sherlock cares, utterly ridiculous in scope, gala is the last thing she wants to hear.

Just thinking of all the breathtaking dresses wasted as a sign of wealth and used to objectify –

_But Wato in a breathtaking gown._

Sherlock nearly slips on the last step, catches herself awkwardly on the rail, pinches her wrist uncomfortably between herself and the wooden rail, and the pain drags her (mentally kicking and whining) away from the brief (oh so brief but tantalising) image of Wato in a form-fitting, floor dress and –

Sherlock’s breathlessness has nothing to do with being pressed into the rail.

_“Sherlock?”_

Sherlock clears her throat, somehow finds her voice. “And what is it you’re bribing me with, brother dearest?”

Her grin, wide and scheming and absolutely, 100% giddy, has everything to do with the image of Wato in a dress. Fuelled even more at the prospect of seeing Wato in such an expensive dress. The amount of chocolates she can get out of Kento for doing this is merely an added bonus.

———————

“I swear if you dragged me halfway across town for a dead musician with a fifi flute –”

“Fife,” Sherlock corrects reflexively, but not unkindly. She shoots Wato a quick glance, trying to convey an apology for the goose chase even as Wato huffs. Sherlock readjusts her grip on the extra-large bag of bird food – which she forgot she even asked for in the first place. She should’ve just asked for sunflower seeds, it’s not like Mrs Hatano’s bird will know the difference – he’d be distracted either way, but oh well.

“Wrong detail to fixate on, Sherlock.”

“It is for a case. No bodies to examine, though.” Sherlock turns the corner, ignoring Wato’s confused _“what”_ and the way her eyes burn at the back of Sherlock’s head. It’ll all make perfect sense once Wato follows her around the corner, and Sherlock’s not one to deny herself the privilege of Wato’s unrestrained reactions.

They’re just so refreshing. (And don’t hit Sherlock in the chest, make something stick at the base of her throat, make her fingers itchy, sprout heat at the base of her neck, absolutely slanderous allegations – )

Like the way Wato’s eyes widen, how her jaw slowly drops as her eyes dance over the shop sign, then the dresses on display, how she instinctively brings a hand to her bag strap, how she clings to it – an anchor, Sherlock deduced, in times of stress or wonderment –

And Sherlock doesn’t even have to squint at miniscule details to pick it out.

 _Refreshing,_ right?

“Our client’s in there?”

Sherlock laughs, stepping closer to Wato, drawn in by her wonderment. (Or simply drawn in by _her._ ) “No.”

“Owns the store?” If possible, Wato’s eyes become even wider, and Sherlock’s brow twitches at how fast Wato whips her head around.

“No.” And she lets Wato’s lips curl into a pout, an adorable little thing Sherlock doesn’t get tired of – and it’s safe to say she won’t get tired of – but she doesn’t let Wato’s brows pinch seriously. “Our case is at a private residence. During a festive occasion. You’ve heard of Goldminster?”

And Sherlock has to practically nudge Wato forward, taps her own lips in the face of Wato’s sputtering, shoves down her amusement as best she can. She’s nearly successful, manages to control herself right before the door. But then Wato lets out a high pitched, utterly hysterical _“The Goldminster gala?!”_ and Sherlock losses it, has to hide her face in her scarf to muffle the laughter.

———————

(“You can’t do this to me, Sherlock!”

“Do what?” Sherlock asks innocently. She braves another backhanded swipe at her arm, challenges Wato’s half-disbelieving half-perturbed look with a single brow. The clerk is off somewhere trying to find dresses that fit the rigorous palette Sherlock all but recited to her. She is nothing if not prepared.

“Drag me half way across town into an expensive shop for a dress for the _Goldminster_ gala and not let me change clothes beforehand,” Wato hisses slightly in her furious attempt to whisper. Sherlock stops in front of Wato, turns so she’s properly facing her, and drags her eyes oh so slowly up and down Wato’s form. Stops only at the beginnings of nervousness – slower to rise than say a month ago, but with more colour flashing above Wato’s collar.

“Why bother when you’re getting out of them anyway?” Sherlock tops it off with a smirk and the clerk’s loud heels return before Wato can offering a comeback.

She does, however, dump her bag and coat rather harshly in Sherlock’s lap, and if Sherlock didn’t know better, she’d think she pissed Wato off. But she caught sight of red cheeks before Wato scurried to the dressing rooms, and Sherlock leans back into her seat with a smile.)

———————

(“Someone wants to steal his _house?_ ” Wato half-shouts, half-whispers from the dressing room, and just to be absolutely sure she peeks from behind the curtain and Sherlock shakes her head at the sight.

And commits the sight of a dishevelled Wato into a special part of her memory.)

———————

Finding the perfect dress is taking longer than anticipated.

For one, Wato looks beautiful in every dress, and it takes Sherlock approximately 3 seconds to find her verbal functions every time Wato steps out in one of them. Yet they’re missing something. It’s just at the tip of Sherlock’s tongue, dances in a blur before Sherlock’s eyes, hangs just out of reach.

For another, Wato is uncomfortable. It becomes painfully obvious after each dress. Sherlock intervenes after the fourth dress, signals the clerk to return the rest and tosses Wato’s coat into her changing room with a _“We’re leaving, Wato.”_

“Their supply was horrendously lacklustre,” Sherlock comments a good while later when it becomes clear Wato’s prickling silence isn’t going to lift. The comment does little to help, however. The thought that she’s feeling guilty for even a second sits heavy on Sherlock’s chest, and she impulsively drags Wato by the arm, forcing them down a side street and toward a blooming garden.

The owners – an elderly pair of ladies with an abundance of cats and flowers – have given Sherlock free reign over their outer garden after she found their seed (and subsequently cat) thief, and Sherlock strives to pass by when work allows.

She spots the flowers she’s looking for by the miniature shrine off to the right path. Wato does as well – or rather she spots the two tubby cats lounging on the shrine. Works either way, Sherlock reasons.

“The ancient Greek name for gladiolus xiphium, from the Greek word xiphos, also meaning sword.” She looms over the pink and yellows blossoms, marvels how the old ladies manage to plant them in geometrical patterns, and pretends she isn’t standing so close to Wato her shoulder brushes Sherlock’s knees when she moves. “Presumably why they represented the Roman Gladiators. Before the African Gladioli became popular in the West of course –”

A kitten interrupts Sherlock, bounding over her feet to latch at her jeans. Sherlock clicks her tongue while Wato laughs in that breathy manner she does, shoulders shifting with the movement.

“We’ve a little gladiator of our own,” she comments, and the kitten, almost as if bolstered by her words, tries to scale Sherlock’s leg and – that won’t do at all.

Sherlock’s only partially sad Wato stopped laughing, only in so far as she’s delighting in the sight of a speechless Wato with a little kitten on her head. (And the little guy stays calm enough for Sherlock to snap a few pictures for a private collection – I mean, er, scientific analysis of course.)

———————

It takes her about 30 minutes to rummage through Mrs Hatano’s dresses, with helpful guidance from the woman in question even if the guidance jumps into digressions and reminiscence far too often. But it takes her 30 minutes to confirm her hypothesis – Mrs Hatano’s dresses, while more elegant and formal than anything Wato has, don’t have that – that _thing_ at the tip of Sherlock’s fingers, tickling her nose and dragging her thoughts to the bar of chocolate she dropped on the kitchen table like a fool.

Wato finds her as she’s got one foot out Mrs Hatano’s room – a glorified closet more like – and she leans back enough to peek into the room, to notice the mess Sherlock’s ignored. She levels Sherlock with an unimpressed look and refuses to budge, no matter how Sherlock tries to slip past her.

And Sherlock might – may – does love her ( _nope nope nope nope nope_ ) ( _yep yep yep yep yep_ ) but Wato can be infuriating at times. Like that little brow raise, that jut of her chin, the tilt of her head that makes sunlight from a nearby window fall just right in her eyes – _infuriating_ (-ly attractive.)

Sherlock huffs, and turns around with an excessive flourish. She has the room cleaned in 5 minutes and Wato’s not even there to see it which is simply rude.

———————

Sherlock finds a pink rose by her cello after dinner, after Wato had retired to her room to presumably do some writing. Compared to the rich wood of the cello, the rose seems a fragile pale pink, and Sherlock’s fingers are gentle along the stem – surprisingly void of thorns.

Yet as she brings it closer to the light, the paleness seeps away into a vibrant shade of eye-catching pink, bordering on red if she were to turn it just so, but she is getting ahead of herself. One doesn’t project on a gift as fine as this; for even if it’s not red, a deep pink rose has Sherlock grinning like a lovesick fool.

———————

The rose does actually give her a brand new idea. Sherlock meticulously places the vase on the coffee table, rose dipped in of course, before she takes out her phone and texts a person she hasn’t in – quite a while.

_Irene, are you busy tomorrow?_

———————

“No. Too many frizzles.”

“But the colour goes so well with her hair.”

“You can’t even see her from all the frizzles.”

“Nonsense,” Irene argues as Wato nearly trips over the rug, and only mildly flinches as Sherlock grabs her arm to keep her upright. And though she looks comical peeking over too large shoulder frizzles, the fact that they cover 80% of her face is a travesty Sherlock refuses to live with.

“I actually need her alive under all of that,” Sherlock grumbles, seated since Wato’s vanished into the next room. Off to tackle another dress from Irene’s bountiful closet. _“Perks of being a theatre actress with nary a flop, darling_ , _”_ Irene said. Or something of the sort.

“It must be important for you to go to Goldminster’s gala.” Irene’s eyes poke at Sherlock’s side, curious as ever. She doesn’t give them anything, merely takes a sip of her coffee – pinching her brows at the bitter taste, so foreign despite being made exactly as Wato does.

“Or should I say,” Irene pauses for dramatic effect because of course she does. She couldn’t possibly be the Irene Adler Sherlock knows if she didn’t do things for dramatics. (Though she’s one to talk.) “ _She_ must be important.”

 _She is_ , Sherlock wants to say. Irene of all people, maybe beside Kento with his sibling sixth sense, and maybe Mrs Hatano with her front row seat to the development (because it was a development as much as Sherlock wishes to deny it) – Irene would understand, see the depth from just a reflection of the surface; hear a confirmation in the click of Sherlock’s tongue.

Find the line in the half-truth of _“It’s a case.”_

And Irene Adler of all people would overlook it, bury it under _“Oh, what kind of case?”_ A courtesy because of what they had, because they’re friends – perhaps they don’t talk as much as they should, perhaps they’ve been focused too much on their jobs to try, but Wato’s made her realise she very much prefers to have friends, and she’d shared too much with Irene, knows her too well, for it to be less than friendship at the end of it all.

“Find the thief. Find his link to Goldminster. Eat everything. Piss off people.” Sherlock shrugs, more interested in the biscuits and tiny cakes laid out on the table – far too many for just the three of them but Irene was never one to measure properly.

“The usual then.” There’s laughter in Irene’s voice, simmering beneath the surface, easy to overlook if you didn’t know to look. Then – “Oh darling, no. Hells to the no, that doesn’t work at all.”

Sherlock catches enough of the dress as Irene shoos Wato back to make her cringe around a mouthful. And shoot Irene a questioning look, bordering on judgement, but the woman just makes a cutting motion with her hand.

“It was a period piece, okay?” A beat. “I may have been drunk and forgot about it.”

“True to the period, then.” The faint laughter coming from the other room only bolsters Sherlock’s grin, as a ray of sunlight bolsters flowers.

“I will take that as a compliment.” Irene cocks her head, arms crossed loosely with her _hold on a second_ look, and Sherlock quickly pretends her empty cup’s the most interesting thing in the room.

“What about you?” Sherlock hums noncommittedly, and doesn’t look up until Irene looms over her. “Your dress – or, rather you’d take a suit, wouldn’t you?” She gives Sherlock a cursory look and nods. “Definitely suit.”

_Rude._

“It’s at the tailors,” Sherlock says simply, and plomps a random biscuit into her mouth, not even bothering to look at which it was. Irene’s shocked look is worth eating one of those spicy biscuits Irene swears by. It’s cut short by something yellow peeking behind Irene and Sherlock frowns in sympathy (and pain. The colour is dreadful.)

Sherlock moves past Irene, is already by the doorframe and shooing Wato back into the room to help her get untangled from the mess of a dress when Irene finally finds her voice – “You’re having a suit made?”

“I dislike repeating myself, Irene.”

“But you hate tailors.”

“Correction.” Sherlock peeks from the doorway. “I detest tailors who can’t follow simple measurements.”

Irene’s incredulous spluttering follows her as she goes to help Wato, and her mumbling is a welcome distraction from fixating on the idea of getting Wato out of a dress for completely inappropriate reasons. Or the fact that they have to drag the dress down Wato, since tugging it overhead yields more pain than results, and Wato’s leaning on Sherlock’s shoulders, breathing heavily over her as Sherlock drags it down –

_Pi to the tenth power is 93648.0474761_

_A hive of bees will fly 90,000 miles, the equivalent of three orbits around the earth to collect 1 kg of honey_

_The cheetah can run at speeds of up to 70 miles an hour; that is 113 kilometres an hour; that is 0.03138888 kilometres per second; that’s –_

“Done,” Sherlock blurts out, nearly bites her tongue in the process. It’s only after Wato steps out of the dress that Sherlock straightens – and catches sight of something deep blue among the cacophony of reds, oranges and greens. She doesn’t even realise she’s patting Wato’s shoulder until the woman catches her hand and then lets out an excited _oh._

 _Oh_ is right. Though Sherlock would rather go with _Bingo._

———————

Wato may have looked beautiful in every of the four top-end dresses she’s tried in the store.

But here, standing in the middle of Irene’s cluttered yet seemingly organised apartment, fiddling nervously with the sash (a lighter shade of blue, crisscrossed with golden threads) and the dress mostly hugging her form, Wato looks _divine_.

(Sherlock has to remind herself to breathe.)

———————

(Sherlock has made one critical mistake in all of this. Well, technically a miscalculation –

Thinking she’ll survive seeing Wato in an exquisite dress – survive seeing Wato be exquisite.

_Legitimately dying._

_Legitimately gay dying or legitimately real dying?_ Kento writes back without missing a beat. Before she can answer, her phone pings again – _Though Wato could help with the latter, then you’d have the former, but_ _she’s got that covered, right?_

 _Asshole,_ Sherlock shoots back immediately. She does get a laugh at imagining Kento sending her a kiss like the emoji he sends. And he does get her new material to the tailor, with the promise to pay for the wasted time, so he has his uses.)

———————

The next logical step, after sorting out their wardrobe, is dancing. Goldminster loves his spacious houses and wasted rooms so he stuffs as many opportunities for dancing as he can, and Sherlock very much doubts Wato had the opportunity to learn western formal dances.

So a hands-on approach is needed, with a skilled instructor.

(No, this isn’t an excuse to hold Wato close, _shut the hell up_.)

(She is trying to be a good friend, a supportive friend who isn’t at all trying to woo her friend/flatmate with her knowledge of western formal dances, and Sherlock didn’t come out here to be attacked like this so drop it.)

“Wrong.”

Wato jumps in her arms, her back flinches beneath Sherlock’s fingers before Sherlock presses them down to keep her there – keep her as close as politely possible – or _impolitely_ if she had any say _._

(And the correct term is seduce.)

“Again,” Sherlock says but waits for Wato’s nod. Waits while her thumb slides along Wato’s knuckles, while her fingers dance on the small of Wato’s back. Waits while the music plays – rises steadily, up, up, up, only to lull at the cusp –

_“Is this… my playlist?”_

_Sherlock had exactly 0.7 seconds to think up an excuse. “A fan of Jean-Baptiste Bréval? Perhaps there’s hope for your taste.”_

(It was a good excuse even if Wato looked like she didn’t believe her.)

Wato nods and they start again, from the top. “One, two, three,” she hears Wato mumble as they move, eyes glued to her feet still and Sherlock would pout if she didn’t suspect Wato could see. So she resigns herself to merely watching Wato. As if it were a punishment when really having her this close is nothing short of a blessing.

So they move around the room – _Wato had stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of the sitting room bare, all the furniture pushed to the side for maximum space_ – _only because Mrs Hatano’s replanting the garden_ – Wato looking at her feet and counting, Sherlock looking at Wato with an adoring smile on her face, music swirling around them. If Sherlock could bottle a moment and keep it forever, this – _this_ is the moment.

Although she’d have a whole shelf full of such moments by now. All with Wato.

All that’s missing is for Sherlock to lean forward, rest her head against Wato’s shoulder, or even against her head if she were so bold. But that would means something, would telegraph that meaning, would shift this thing between them into a different court and Sherlock doesn’t want to push her.

It’s bad enough she pushed her once, in a flash of weakness after a nightmare. Mind addled from seeing Wato, eyes dead, face stony, Wato looking nothing like the Wato she knows – Wato, leaving her, leaving and Moriwaki taking her away – in her confusion, desperation, Sherlock had grasped at anything, everything to ground her. Had ended up burying her face in Wato’s shoulder, digging her nails into Wato’s back, had mumbled words she’s not sure she remembers right.

All she remembers is Wato shushing her, hesitant fingers going through her hair. All she remembers is waking up with Wato next to her.

Wato’s foot cracks her reverie, stepping on her toes none too gently but retracting with such speed it could only be an accident. Sherlock clicks her tongue instinctually, casts a cursory glance to make sure nothing’s broken. The hand on her shoulder tightens for a fraction of a second. It’s the only warning she gets and Sherlock doesn’t let Wato slip back, holds her fingers tightly and clamps on the small of her back.

“This isn’t working.” And where Wato expects them to separate, Sherlock presses forward, and the proximity forces Wato to look up, forces her surprised eyes to take in Sherlock’s lopsided grin. This isn’t a push, it’s a nudge and it’s a nudge toward proper dancing not – nothing else.

“Don’t think. Listen and count.” Sherlock stares right back at Wato’s pointed look, ignores the _you’re telling me not to think_ , and simply starts counting: _one two three_ –

Wato’s eyes slip downward to their feet.

“Eyes on me, Wato,” Sherlock whispers. The softness of her voice surprises herself as much as it does Wato. She can blame it on the music, pitched low while the tracks switch, but neither of them are going to believe that.

But it is the right thing to say, the right way to say, because Wato straightens her shoulders and moves into the next series of steps, eyes unflinchingly on Sherlock. It’s enough to make her self-conscious. It’s enough to make her insides twist and excitement simmer along her arms. And it’s that excitement that spurs her to add a twirl as the music suddenly cuts off at the crescendo.

And it’s not at all excitement that has her ending the twirl with a dip, has her hand tighten around Wato’s waist, has her bring their faces dangerously close (uncomfortably close, once upon a time. Well past them now.) But the way Wato’s fingers scrape against her shoulder, catch the base of her neck, the way her other fingers practically dig into her knuckles, the way Wato’s breathing feels against her chest – deep and haggard and catching – oh, it has excitement bulldozing to the surface.

Leaves her daring. Leaves her wanting.

_Too far._

Sherlock straightens them in one fluid motion, ready to slip back and give Wato space to collect herself. Ready, being the key word here. Wato’s hand tightens in hers, keeps her grounded like an anchor and keeps her close – and for an alarming moment Sherlock’s taken to a bleak morning, Wato shaking on the couch, eyes far away and repeating _sorry sorry sorry_ and all Sherlock could do was sit there and hold her trembling hand – _her dominant hand, the hand holding the gun_.

Sherlock blinks and thankfully the Wato before her isn’t ashen, isn’t trying to keep herself together, isn’t apologising for something she had no control over. No, this Wato’s trying to catch her breath, trying to stop the excitement shining in her eyes from spilling over and Sherlock can’t help being amused by the sight. Can’t help her heart swelling at seeing her so relaxed.

“Again?” Wato asks shyly, as if Sherlock wouldn’t give her the world.

“Repetition is the master of skill.”

———————

(“How did you even get invitations for the gala?” Wato asks while scooping up ice cream from her bowl. After two hours of dancing with Wato only stepping on her toes five times, Sherlock had reasoned it’s a good cause for ice cream. Even if it wasn’t, she’d drag Wato to the little sweets’ parlour, which with its pastel colours never fails to remind her of Wato. And their chocolate is above average.

“Kento always gets them.”

“He does? Oh, that’s so amazing.” Wato stretches her _ooooh_ and her amazement manages to seep into Sherlock’s thoughts. There’s another reason she dislikes the Goldminster gala, a far deeper reason she’s sure she can avoid right now. She could spin a tale of Kento’s brilliance, or retell that one case for the half-sibling one of the Goldminster heirs. Could do a great many things to avoid the subject.

But it’s not what she said she’d do, is it? She said she trusts Wato. Maybe not in those words but she does, to an alarming depth. Falling back on digressions and elaborate verbal puzzles to avoid a touchy subject isn’t how she shows it.

“It’s a family thing,” Sherlock says, eyes glued to her bowl, to the spoon tapping against the edge. She doesn’t need to look up to know Wato’s listening. She’s grateful for it. More than she can say. “Mother and father were business associates. A formal name for people solving the old fart’s problems. So he invites them. As thanks I suppose.”

“But now only Kento gets them?”

Sherlock grins, lets her eyes slowly wander to Wato. “We both do. I simply burn mine.” And she snorts at Wato’s shocked expression, milder than what Sherlock expected but no less satisfying.

“Good thing someone decided to steal his house.” Sherlock hums in agreement, but her eyes are back on her spoon, her thoughts back to the first gala she and Kento had to attend without her parents. Back to how it all seemed so tall and spacious and empty, hollowed out, put on display like the words jumbling around them. Every look the same, every mask identical to the next. Is it any wonder why Sherlock spent most of the night playing with the orchestra?

A bowl of dark ice cream, toppled with a rich red syrup – raspberries, the smell tells her – slides before her hands, clinks as it connects with her own empty bowl. Sherlock has to blink for a whole 4 seconds longer than she’s comfortable with before she realises the bowl indeed exists and that it’s indeed for her.

A quick glance tells her Wato has a new bowl of her own, and is definitely purposefully avoiding Sherlock’s look, mashing the ice cream with too much vigour to be casual. And of all the people to fall in love with, Sherlock had to pick the one who mashes her ice cream into a puddle _then_ eats it.

As if she’d have it any other way.

Her lips quirk at the thought, and she brings her new bowl closer so she can eat ice cream like you’re supposed to.)

———————

“Aren’t you even going to try and memories these? No,” Wato cuts herself off, “of course you wouldn’t, miss ‘the brain is a closet’.”

Sherlock scoffs at the poor imitation of her accent, back to Wato and eyes scanning the plans for Goldminster’s estate. There’s a rumour old Goldminster keeps his will in a miniature house, and Sherlock will bet her collection of fine chocolates it’s what their thief’s really after.

“They are either successful or old money. They all put on their best masks and talk about ultimately nonsensical things until the opportunity arises to broker their host’s favour. Then –” Sherlock twirls in her chair, elbows on the armrests and fingers pressed together. “All attention is on their grovelling. Perfect for our thief to slip past.”

“Despite security.”

“A child could slip past them with ease.” She should know. Even her most amateurish attempts succeeded where they should’ve failed.

Wato drops the thick bundle of papers – a list of all the guests and staff, courtesy of Kento, and mostly for Wato’s sake. She’s been fidgeting since they left the parlour to eat lunch proper. Fearing she’ll insult someone, given the way she had dived into the list like Mrs Hatano dives into a new season of her shows. Sherlock can’t fathom why she bothers.

“A child’s small. Not at all the same as a guest trying to slip past.”

“Familiarity leads to comfort leads to cursory visual processing.” Sherlock ticks off the things with her fingers, chin coming to rest on her free palm. “A familiar face is more likely to slip away.”

“Shouldn’t it be opposite?” Sherlock hums before shaking her head. She doesn’t offer an answer, or a rebuttal. Merely watches and waits for it to click; observes the minute shifts in Wato’s expression as the pieces fall into place, marvels at it all. Like watching a painting come to life, watching a sculpture emerge from stone – no, marble. Wato deserves nothing short of a marble statue.

So busy is Sherlock planning out a marble statue – which may or may not be in Wato’s likeness – that she nearly misses the moment it all clicks for Wato.

“Oh. They’ll be too concentrated on new faces that they’ll overlook all the regulars.” Then Wato’s brows pinch together and she frowns in a way that’s closer to a pout and exceptionally adorable. Sherlock has to hide her mouth behind her fingers with how stupidly big her grin is.

“And the host,” Wato adds, blinking a few times before nodding to herself. “They’ll focus on the host, right?”

Sherlock nods, still caught up in Wato and her little wiggle – _wiggle_ – at figuring something out. Utterly ridiculous. Somehow Sherlock loves her even more because of it. She should definitely factor that in her equation – not that she has an equation on the whys, hows and whens she’s fallen in love with Wato Tachibana, because she _doesn’t_.

———————

(“Up you go. You’ll remember them better with a dance.”

“Another one? My feet still hurt, though.”

“There are five standard dances for social events and you’ve barely learned one.”

_“What?!”_

“Up!” Sherlock demands and for a brief moment she thinks Wato will merely tug her down, stubborn as she can be, and Sherlock spends 25 seconds longer – entirely due to her tiredness – imagining falling on top of Wato – imagines how much nicer it is compared to dancing with Wato – and gets lost in trying to compare the two in standardised measuring units – before Wato lets herself be dragged off the couch.)

———————

Here’s another thing she should factor into the equation, as a big, bolded, capital coefficient:

Wato Tachibana coming down the stairs looking absolutely exquisite for the gala.

Honestly if Sherlock wasn’t already leaning against a wall, she’d have fallen down, mind void of any coherent thoughts, void of any suggestion at even semi-proper sentence structure. Void of any worries over misaligned cuffs, or wrinkles on the purple coat or how the blue undershirt scratches at the underside of her jaw.

Just one large batch of exclamation points and _asjgfhgshdgahsdfahsvahv._

It’s fortunate that Wato freezes at the sight of Sherlock, and Sherlock has enough mental capacity to recognise the double take. Because if they’re both speechless then it’s not so blatantly obvious. Yes, that’s sound reasoning.

A knock has them both jumping out of their skin – well, Wato jumping out of her skin and hurrying down the steps, while Sherlock blinks herself back to the present and presses her fingers to her right ear to force the drumming away. It doesn’t help, but the drumming stops once Sherlock notices Mrs Hatano standing atop the stairs – must’ve trailed behind Wato – and recognises the knowing smile on her face.

Sherlock offers her a tiny wave, a flick of the fingers, and hurries after Wato and their designated driver – who still in the age of doorbells and phones and texts, decides to knock.

———————

(“You promise to behave?”

“Of course.”

Kento doesn’t even bother to look Sherlock’s way. Doesn’t even sigh. Utterly no fun. “Wato –”

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t piss anyone off.” Sherlosck shoots Wato one of her deepest pouts, and Wato visibly relents under the pressure (though not without an eye roll.) “Too much.”

Wato’s muttering of _utterly unfair_ has Sherlock’s pout practically soaring into a shit-eating grin and has her fingers skipping closer to Wato’s on the backseat. Should Wato’s pinky casually slip over hers, curl protectively, Sherlock’s certainly not going to point it out. Glance down every chance she can get away with, yes; let her lips twitch into a small smile, absolutely; drag Wato’s pinky along when Kento takes his turns, despite having nothing to hide behind, yes, 100%.

But ruin the moment with words? Not for all the chocolate in the world.)

———————

They don’t arrive on time – _“No one arrives on time at these things”_ – and Sherlock can faintly hear the orchestra from the entrance hall, pick out the light notes of Giovanni Battista Cirri’s Cello Concerto No 6 in C major, so it’s reasonable to deduce they aren’t too late. Even if one of the Goldminster heirs, whose idea of splashing colour onto a black suit includes a turquoise handkerchief, gives them a panicked look before switching to the habitual greeting. Late enough to miss all the boring people, yet early enough to scope the main rooms without a crowd blocking the view.

“We’ll meet at the cupid fountain,” Kento says, but Sherlock spots a large table littered with food and immediately goes to taste _everything_. She had developed a theory that to measure a formal party’s worth, one must simply taste the food and one glass of alcohol; and so far nothing’s debunked that theory. Someone, of course, would argue guests make or break a venue, but when she’s got Wato trailing after her, Sherlock can’t possibly take that theory seriously.

“Did you even listen?”

“Meet at the fountain covered in roses and naked winged babies,” Sherlock deadpans, thoughtfully chewing on a miniature sandwich. She hands its twin to Wato, both to stave any further questioning and so she’d have another opinion because so far the miniature sandwiches are very below average. Some are downright insulting her tongue, and Wato’s lucky they have pickles so she’s spared the horror.

The only thing more insulting is the choice of wine, a blend of sweet and sour that has her teeth clenching and her nose wrinkling, and she nearly spills some from her glass in her haste to hand it off to Wato.

“Is that Miss Adler?” Wato whispers and Sherlock quickly looks up from the decorations – glass cut in haste, masked well – to find Irene Adler staring right back at them. No, not simply staring, gesturing off somewhere – gesturing to go somewhere, eyes alarmed but Sherlock’s yet to find the reason –

It finds her in the shape of an old couple she remembers _distinctly_ from the last time she was at the gala, and despite it being well over a decade ago, they haven’t changed a bit. Right down to the way they both exclaim with a mix of joy and dread – “Sara Shelly Futaba?”

Sherlock tries to ignore them, tries to hide by turning around and stuffing her face with a random handful of sandwiches all the while Wato gives her a worried look – and has a hand halfway toward Sherlock, but whether to drag her away or offer help in the event of choking, Sherlock doesn’t get to find out –

Because the couple’s coming their way, and Wato looks at a loss for what to do, and a panicked Wato isn’t the optimal person to improvise so Sherlock snags the glass of disgusting wine, washes down the sandwiches and puts on her most faux polite smile.

———————

“We didn’t think you’d return at all –”

“Much less with a friend.”

“My fiancée, actually,” Sherlock blurts out before her higher cognitive functions catch up with her and scream _are you fucking kidding?_ But it’s out in the open, too late to take it back now, not that she particularly wants to take it back and besides they can work with this. They’ve made worse situations turn out all right.

Wato’s sputtering next to her, glancing between her and the equally confused couple, and Sherlock’s sure there’s heat at the base of her neck. Sherlock eases her hand behind Wato, rests her fingers on the small of her back, right below the blue-gold sash, and pinches once. It’s enough to snap Wato out of her daze

“Yes, hello, I’m the fiancée.” Wato bows lightly, gracing the couple with a practised smile that holds a hint of genuine amusement. It’s a feat Sherlock’s still trying to figure out. “I still get a little star struck whenever Sh – Sara, introduces me as her fiancée.”

She gives Sherlock a warm smile, eyes crinkling at the edges and Sherlock doesn’t have to fake the adoring look she returns, doesn’t have to hide the curve of her smile, doesn’t have be mindful her hand on Wato’s waist stays polite and light.

———————

(Sherlock may have overlooked one itsy bitsy fact when she haphazardly introduced Wato as her _fiancée_ – the couple is notorious for gathering and spreading gossip.

By the time they make it to Irene ( _“Mom prolonged her trip to Austria, lucky me,”_ ) the woman apologetic and offering a plate of sugary confections, most of the room’s aware Sara Shelly Futaba’s attending and that she’s brought her _fiancée._

“Of all the things, Sherlock,” Wato mutters from where she’s practically clinging to Sherlock’s arm – her own doing after Sherlock managed to excuse themselves from the couple, and Sherlock’s in no rush to take her arm back.

“Are you saying this is worse than the postman uniform?” And Sherlock can’t help but laugh at Wato’s groan, can’t help but tug her closer as Wato shakes her head. “I could scour for a fake moustache if you prefer.”

“Don’t you _dare_.”

“Do I want to know?” Irene asks, mildly amused at the prospect. Sherlock’s about to answer her, but one sharp look from Wato and turns her words into a click of the tongue.)

———————

The swarm of people flocking to them is to be expected, really. Sara Shelly Futaba has become a myth – the illusive Futaba sibling – the odd one out – the prodigal daughter leaving her prodigal brother to fend for himself among the social sharks – the crass and blunt and uncouth girl (and Sherlock resents them most for the last one. Just because they can’t understand a refined taste can exist outside their own little bubble of standards, doesn’t mean it’s improbable of existing.)

(Lies, she resents them most for how they speak of her family. Flowery words and epistolary epithets and wax poeticism thrown in to throw one off the true meaning, to hide the snides and remarks and hisses, to hide the silent daggers they aimed at her brother. Resents them for making him think it’s irresponsible of him not to show up for so long Sherlock had to stage an intervention. _Sherlock_.)

And it’s fine. It’s become part of the norm. It’s what Sherlock’s expected once she agreed to attend. (It also offers a unique opportunity to scout the people for any anomalies, pick up on any tells and fish out the thief – yet sadly no luck.) But what’s not all right, far from all right, is the way the swarm turns their attention to “politely” dissecting Wato because _Sara Shelly Futaba has a fiancée, how did that happen, who is this girl, what is wrong with her_

Sherlock damn near punched the man for even thinking that, let alone insinuating it within the first two minutes of talking. But that wouldn’t do, it would draw yet more attention, make an even bigger spectacle with Wato at the centre and even this has her digging her fingers uncomfortably in Sherlock’s arm. So she decides to cut him up, verbally of course, and enjoy as he squirms and discreetly leaves the group.

She will be damned if she lets anyone talk shit about Wato Tachibana. Loving, kind, adorable, beautiful Wato Tachibana deserves only the best things in her life, and somehow she’s decided that includes Sherlock and she will not let anyone sully that. She’d been so excited (and apprehensive) about being at the gala, and Sherlock won’t let anyone dampen the experience with unkind words.

And that would be how Sherlock ended up interjecting into a conversation between a group of three dressed as the Romanian flag, and segues expertly into list all the wondrous things Wato can do – _she’s a doctor, professional to a fault – have I mentioned she knows three types of martial arts? – an artiste with chocolate –_

All in French of course. Because if you talk shit in French thinking it’s the quickest barrier, you can bet your ass Sherlock is going to flex her linguistic muscles just to chase you down and correct your misconceptions.

———————

So no, she can’t rightly tell you when she and Wato got separated. Only that she misses her, expects her to be there when she glances to her side after a particularly fine remark, and has to stop herself from pouting every time she remembers Wato’s out there mingling. Thankfully Irene had gone with Wato, so the woman’s not alone in a sea of social parasites. And Kento’s out there, somewhere.

_Probably looking for the thief unlike somebody who keeps sneaking glances at her fake fiancée._

God even her conscious sounds like him. Disconcerting.

She can tell you how they met again – Sherlock was in the middle of describing the finer points of the proper interpretation of the laws of thermodynamics – not so difficult, but the Englishwoman’s views were so skewed, they were in another coordinative system – when swift movement catches Sherlock’s eye. It draws her to the real commotion:

Wato vehemently arguing with a lord something or other – let’s call him Pompous Stache – and if Sherlock bothered to look about, she’d see half the room’s holding their breath, observing the scene unfold like her. Except not like her. They’re whispering about Wato, unkind things most like, waiting for the scene to culminate, for Pompous Stache to fire back his own tirade.

Well, we can’t have that. Wato’s back is straight, her hands are held close to her sides and she’s got that serious look on her face, the unrelenting look Sherlock’s yet to beat. And if she can’t beat it, Lord Pompous Facial Hair has no chance.

Sherlock wonders briefly how this happened, where Irene Adler has disappeared to (she lives for the drama) but she reaches Wato mid-sentence, catches _“And she is the kindest person I know –”_ and _oh._ Oh, this changes things, changes them like a caterpillar changes to a butterfly, and makes Sherlock’s mind blank for a spell. But she pushes through it, and not-too-kindly extricates Wato from the scene. Not-too-kindly for the lord, left red and fuming as Sherlock insulted his facial hair, but she guides Wato away with all the gentleness she can find after spending an hour in this mess.

Wato’s had it worse, wound as she is, shoulders locked tight and fingers pressed into fists and shoved beneath her armpits. Sherlock has to tickle her elbow to free one, braves the irritated look so she can lead her away to one of the garden doors; and she waits until the people around them thin into small groups of two and three before she leans close.

“You’ve caused a scene,” she whispers into Wato’s ear, squeezing Wato’s fingers only to release them and slide her hand loose on Wato’s waist. It takes all of her energy to keep her voice low and even, takes everything she has to keep her amusement (adoration) under the surface.

It earns her a snort, has the shoulder ease, has arms loosen from around Wato.

“I learned from the best.” Wato tilts her head back slightly as she speaks, giving Sherlock a lovely view of her unrepentant smile, such a lovely contrast to her irritation. Shivers run down her spine and her hand tightens on Wato’s waist, for nary a second.

“Besides,” Wato continues, and Sherlock could swear her eyes dip down for a moment. “They’re expecting something like that from Sara Shelly Futaba’s fiancée, right?”

If only that were true. The fiancée part. The other part is accurate enough.

———————

Sherlock has to say, for all the space and money old Goldminster poured into the estate, the gardens are pretty boring. Monotonous. Uninspiring. The only plants other than sheared shrubbery are roses and even those are limited to two colours and Sherlock wonders _what is the point, then?_

Even Mrs Hatano with her periodic interest in gardening and with a twelfth of the space manages to make it more lively and vibrant and exciting than – than _this._

“It’s sad, isn’t it?” Sherlock glances over, humming in question. Wato’s eyes are on their surroundings. “All this space and to leave it like this. Hollow.”

Hollow – yes, that’s a good word for it. For the whole Goldminster estate, for the phantom feeling seeping into her chest whenever she remembers this place, whenever she thinks of the gala. Whenever she tries to recall her parents’ faces.

Hollow.

Sherlock inhales – _one two three four five_ – exhales. Now’s not the time to trudge through dark memories. She has an exquisite, lovely lady beside her and she’s still got several things she’s yet to accomplish in her master plan of Seducing Wato Tachibana. (Not meticulously planned since Kento first called. Preposterous.)

“Or maybe I’m used to your clutter.”

“I don’t clutter.”

Sherlock doesn’t need to look at her to know Wato’s rolling her eyes, but she does anyway. The lamps around the garden make Wato’s eyes stand out, shine much unlike she’s seen them and Sherlock can’t stop looking. Maybe she could swipe one of the red roses. They’re not up to standard, and their petals gleam with a sticky substance but –

“Your chaotic organisation, then.”

But she wanted to give her one since finding a red rose on that roof, since she scooped it up and _knew_ who put it there, since she returned home to Wato both shouting at her and running to crush her in a hug and she thought _this is home._

“Chaotic to you.”

She wanted to but never found the right time. (Lies, she’s had countless opportunities, but her nerves get the better of her, lock up her fingers and hiss _are you enough, I wonder?_ )

(But then she remembers the little things – coffee sweetened by chocolate after a long night, large earphones always in Wato’s bag, the fact Wato still humours her and reads aloud – thinks of all the night they share a bed, keeping the nightmares at bay – and she thinks _yes._ )

“It took you 10 minutes to find your phone.”

“Because _someone_ moved it,” Sherlock fires back, but stops to examine one of the miniature statues in the garden – a lion with one of its paws missing, reared back to attack all who pass by. Recently repainted with a protective substance. She stops not because the statue’s interesting – all right, not _just_ because of that, but also to snatch the turquoise handkerchief off the ground.

The older Goldminster son – the one now missing a handkerchief – had been buzzing about all night, while his brother kept to the groups, performing his social duty. And glancing about too often to be a coincidence, and no she didn’t pay close attention because he was in a group close to Wato. That factored merely 30%.

“Does it ever bother you, what they say?” Sherlock hums, half listening as she inspects the handkerchief. Her eyes flick over when Wato doesn’t elaborate, and Sherlock straightens at the serious look on Wato’s face. She’s been sitting on the question.

“There are only three people inside whose opinion I care about. Well –” Sherlock clicks her tongue and tosses the handkerchief Wato’s way. “Two. One is outside. Recognise that?”

Wato turns it over, lips drawn together in a thoughtful pout. “Should it?”

Sherlock exhales, wondering for the umpteenth time whether Wato’s purposefully obtuse. She’s shown signs of higher attentiveness – signs she’s caught on to Sherlock’s little bread crumbs – but then she misses the most obvious things.

“When we arrived who greeted us?”

“Goldminster’s son – _oh_.” And her eyes grow comically wide, matching Sherlock’s grin, growing even bigger at Wato’s dilemma – whether to toss the handkerchief back or try to fold it properly.

“Precisely,” Sherlock says and continues down the path, the only way through this part of the garden other than through the walls. He’s here somewhere and she’s going to catch him.

(And if she swipes a rose on their way out of that section of the garden, it’s just an added bonus. And if Wato’s lagging behind long enough for Sherlock to slip the rose into one of her jacket pockets, prepared for a more opportune setting, it definitely doesn’t leave her fingers itching.)

———————

They find him talking with someone in one of the smaller alcoves, hidden behind shrubbery walls and weak lighting. Hissing _There’s no telling what she’ll do_ in a furious, downright panicked tone, but even then his voice is kept low so they have to practically bury their heads in the shrubbery.

The only saving grace is having Wato pressed against her but even that is cut short when Sherlock realises just how cold Wato’s arms are, nearly flinches away from the chill against her hand. And of course Wato would be cold – the temperature has dipped significantly and they’re approaching fall and they haven’t given her anything to wear over her dress. That can’t do.

“What’re you doing?” Wato demands, half-looking at Sherlock, half at the alcove. Sherlock simply shushes her, eyes trained on the alcove as her fingers deftly unbutton her jacket. It’s off in one swift motion and Sherlock’s handing it over her shoulder.

She can practically hear Wato’s silent question.

“Your shaking’s going to get us caught.” Is all Sherlock offers. It sounds weak even in her ears.

But Turquoise Handkerchief’s moving and they don’t have time to talk about it.

———————

(They lose him close to the east side of the estate. He slips between the mass of people milling about, but Sherlock gets a good look at his accomplice and she can’t place his face. She’s seen him somewhere and it’s right there, poking at the back of her head but she can’t grasp it and it’s _irritating_.

Not even the fact that Wato’s still wearing her jacket, hasn’t made a move to give it back (nor has Sherlock made any move to ask for it) brightens her mood. This requires research.

Sherlock nearly slaps herself once they find out the accomplice is Goldminster’s lawyer, yet whether it was Wato’s hand on the back of her shoulder or her own self-control that stops her, she cannot say.)

———————

(But she does a mental double take at reading a name she knows from outside the social hierarchy, and a name that shouldn’t be on the guest list.)

———————

Sherlock spots a person approaching with plates and she frowns at the interruption before she realises it’s Kento, and she reflexively raises her hand in a small wave. The plates hold one large slice of cake each, and Sherlock’s never been happier to see her brother.

“Yes, yes. I’m your favourite when I bring cake, eh?”

“So good we’re on the same page,” Sherlock mumbles, and pauses mid-chew to give Kento a saccharinely sweet smile, earning her a long eye roll. “So?”

“Nothing in his study. _Any_ of his studies,” Kento adds at Sherlock’s raised finger.

“Miss Irene says the other son’s clear as well. Merely having an affair,” Wato says it so nonchalantly, as if she were commenting the cake frosting (too sticky.) She’s completely oblivious to both stares until she takes a bite of her cake. Then colour rises on her cheeks and her eyes dart between the two siblings. “She looked like he was waiting for someone and Miss Irene can slip through the crowd far easier than me, so I thought –”

“Smart,” Sherlock supplies once it becomes clear Wato’s about to divert into rapid hand gestures to get her point across. She doesn’t even care about the lopsided smile on her face, or the look Kento’s giving her. All that matters is Wato’s little proud smile.

(And okay, maybe the information’s important too.)

———————

(So here’s the plan –

The house isn’t in the studies so it’s hidden somewhere obvious but easy to miss. Like say a library with a secret passage – there are two secret passages in the house, and one’s been collapsed into a legitimate hallway, Sherlock’s triple checked.

The only way they can reach that is through security, so they need a distraction.

 _It’s dance time, ppl_ – Irene writes with an abundance of dance, party and confetti emojis, and it gives Sherlock an idea.

“I dislike it already,” Kento grumbles.

“Would you rather dance with me?” Sherlock counters, already knowing the answer. All the same Kento shakes his head and physically shifts Wato so she’s between them. Even Wato huffs at the predictability. Or at the memory of their dance lessons. Or perhaps she’s worried she’ll step on Sherlock’s toes.

She won’t, she’s a trained natural, and Sherlock squishes the voice whispering _That isn’t a thing._ )

———————

It’s once they’re close to the doors that Wato offers the jacket back. Sherlock gives it one long look, looking for an excuse to have Wato keep it, but takes it in the end, mind drawing a blank. Sherlock dresses in a flourish and the remains of Wato’s perfume hit her senses at full force, cause her breathing to hiccup, have her heart beat beneath her jaw, have her completely stop for a millisecond.

But there are people around and Wato’s sure to notice her stumble so she pushes through it. And pushes down the urge to take a whiff of her collar.

They’re crossing into the dance area when Sherlock realises the rose is missing. When she remember Wato fiddling with her purse. It leaves her neck warm, and teeth marks on her bottom lip.

———————

“Now who’s making a scene?” Wato whispers right before Sherlock leads her into a twirl. With a snap of her wrist Wato’s back in her grasp, a hand on her waist pressing her close. Wato’s own is holding onto Sherlock’s shoulder and she swears she can feel it through the jacket, through the blue shirt. Feels them like they’re right over her heart.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sherlock shoots back, voice deceptively light and teasing, as if she’s not concentrated on all the point where they’re touching, as if she doesn’t see the how Wato’s eyes dance over her face more than they’re paying attention to their surroundings – this is for reconnaissance after all. She doubts either of them believed it for a second.

“Admit it, you didn’t want those lessons to be a waste.”

“Of course I didn’t.” And Sherlock’s grin grows as Wato’s slips, so surprised at the answer she misses a step. But Sherlock guides her through it, dips her back only to twirl them both around and continue the tempo – _one two three four_ –

Heart going _thump thump thump-thump-thump thump_. Fingers twitching on Wato’s waist, tickling the fine gold threads of her sash. Relishing in the closeness so much it leaves her erratic, breathless in a way she doesn’t mind. Leaves her craving.

She casts a cursory glance over Wato’s shoulder, making at least a semblance of an effort to keep an eye out. Her eyes land on a familiar figure, mind flares back to the guest list, but Wato steals all of her attention with a mumbled _This is nice._

She surprises herself too, given how she freezes under Sherlock’s hands midstep but catches herself before she stepped on any toes. She’s furiously avoiding Sherlock’s eyes, stubbornly looking over Sherlock’s shoulder, and the tip of her uncovered ear is red.

Sherlock bites her lip to stop the giggle, and instead she leans closer still, dazed for a heartbeat at the feel of Wato’s heartbeat against her, at the whiff of her perfume and something so instinctively _Wato_ , at her little gasp –

She’s going somewhere with this –

“Yes it is,” she whispers against Wato’s ear before she can stop herself, so close to her neck _._ Sherlock inhales before adding, “Maybe we should continue it. You could use the practice.”

She’s fairly – 98.5% certain the things scratching the back of her neck, pressing through her shirt collar, are Wato’s fingers. Almost like she’s pulling her closer – no, keeping her in place. _She’s keeping her in place._ The thought makes Sherlock heady.

“Are you saying I’m that bad?”

“There’s room for improvement.”

Wato _tsks_ right in Sherlock’s ear, sends shivers down her back and it’s fortunate the music lulls so she can distract Wato with one final dip. Except she forgot the part where Wato’s reflexively grips at her shoulder, a part of her still afraid Sherlock with drop her, and it does nothing to stop the shivers.

And as they part, upright of course and a step (ruefully) between them, Sherlock keeps a sturdy hold on Wato’s hand, yet loose so she can slip away if she wishes. Ever so slowly Sherlock dips forward, waiting for Wato to decide – slip or stay, slip or stay – and plants a kiss on her knuckles.

And it’s then, with Wato staring at her befuddled, that Kento starts fake choking. He’s nothing if not a punctual distraction. With an eye roll at his performance, Sherlock nudges her chin in his direction. Might as well make sure he doesn’t actually hurt himself.

———————

She finds they key to the secret passage in no time at all. I mean, who puts Dante’s _Divine Comedy_ in a section with Victorian romanticism? Sherlock’s half tempted to reorganise this whole library – and it barely counts 500 books, how is this considered a proper library? Does Goldminster even ready? Truly? – but time is of the essence and people are likely to wonder why Sara Shelly Futaba was mysteriously absent while her brother choked.

The secret passage leads to a small room with a single coffee table and a miniature house lying on top of it. Oh and a large portrait of old man Goldminster right behind it, staring at the door. Creepy as fuck.

Sherlock takes a photo of the scene, careful to catch it at an angle where the portrait’s eyes are directly above the house, and categorises it as _Use when they say you’re being dramatic._ She snaps another of the house, for further study. (Not to replicate, oh no, she has no interest in making a miniature house to hide things in.)

“Step away from the house.” Sherlock flinches as the voice bounces around the room, booming and stabbing into her temple like a dozen needles. Sherlock turns, eyes squinting toward the door – yep, there she is. Old Goldminster’s niece or as Sherlock remembers her – the only one in the family with any architectural or fashion sense, but mostly called the Black Sheep.

And she’s holding a gun. She’s _pointing_ a gun at Sherlock. She really didn’t miss having a gun pointed at her, just throwing it out there. Not at all.

“Come to get your house back?” Sherlock asks, and lowers her arms before the woman jerks her gun, tilts her head and makes a _don’t_ face.

“Is it inside?”

“I don’t know, you told me to step away.”

The woman glares like Sherlock shouldn’t have listened to her in the first place. She motions with the gun. “Check.”

“Have they driven you to this? Promised you nothing in his Will so now you’ll take your father’s house right from under them?” Sherlock leans over the house, easily unlocks the mechanism hidden in the roof and truly inside lies a neatly folded last Will.

“Pick it up and bring it here.” Sherlock glances up through her bangs and catches movement behind the architect, but it’s too far away to make out who it is. “Slowly.”

She slowly takes out the papers, dusts them off for good measure – mindful to keep it off her suit. Then she starts reading it, because how else is she supposed to stall for time? Besides the woman didn’t say Sherlock couldn’t read it, so long as she brought it to her. She’s not to blame for the woman’s faulty logic.

“Hand it over or –” Sherlock looks at her, catches how the woman’s hands shake on her gun – a familiar sight, yet with more natural light, far closer and a completely different pair of hands – before she tightens her grip. Refocuses. “Or I’ll shoot.”

Something glints behind the architect. “You won’t.”

“Wh – What?”

Another glint. _Now or never, Kento._ Sherlock grins, and points to the gun. “The safety’s on.”

Something whacks the architect on the head, and Sherlock flinches at the sound, fingers tightening on the papers lest they go for her ears. Where the woman lays crumbled on the floor Wato stands over her, a dark brown cane ending with a round silver head clutched in her arms, held close in case she needs to use it again.

Sherlock promptly drops the papers, fingers numb as much as her mind’s drawing a blank at the sight, and the ringing in her ears is replaced by a familiar drum. Wato gives the unconscious woman a long look before finally meeting Sherlock’s gaze and something shifts behind her eyes, and Sherlock might be wrong but Wato’s eyes soften.

“I know. I know. It took me too long.” And Wato turns sheepish, lowers her head and the cane, and mumbles, “Sorry.”

_Don’t be sorry, you’re magnificent._

“It works with your dress,” Sherlock says instead, and internally she’s screaming at her words. Of all the things to fixate on, exploring the usages of that cane with Wato Tachibana, while possibly scientific isn’t –

“You should keep it.” _Stop. Talking._

Wato brings up the cane’s silver edge, rubs something off it – hopefully not blood, it doesn’t look like blood – and hums, considering. “Maybe.”

Sherlock raises her brow, already excited at the prospect and Wato must feel it because she doesn’t look up when she hurriedly adds, “But let’s move her first.”

———————

(Kento’s fine. A bit disgruntled he’s being fussed over by four doctors – or so Wato claims – but it’s Irene basically bouncing in place that catches her attention.

She doesn’t even wait for them to ask, just blurts out “The drama I’ve unearthed, Sherlock.” And she plants a comically exaggerated kiss on her fingers, much like a chef does in Mrs Hatano’s shows. “I don’t know where you found Wato, but you keep your fiancée close, darling.”

“Oh, I’m not really her – I mean we’re not –” Wato gestures between them, glances over to Sherlock for help once her words clog but Sherlock makes no move to help her. Doesn’t even get the chance, really.

“Darling, can I be blunt?”

“When aren’t you?”

“I’ll take that as permission, thank you, Sherlock. Wato, darling,” Irene turns back to Wato, actually takes her hands in hers and says in her most sincere voice. “There’s no heterosexual explanation for how you two looked tonight. Just putting it out there.”

Where Sherlock expects Wato to start stuttering, the woman remains silent. Eyes unseeing, staring off into the space between her and Irene, blinking furiously and utterly uncooperative. Sherlock barely touches her elbow, yet it snaps her out of her daze, has Wato mumbling an apology and a thank you and a _Nice to meet you_ all at once, turning it into a cacophony.

She darts toward Kento, finally free of doctors, and Sherlock’s not sure Wato’s all right. She glares at Irene for good measure, but the woman just shrugs her shoulders. “Someone had to say it. For fuck’s sake your first choice was ‘hey, this is my fiancée.’ Little on the nose, Sherlock.”

“I panicked.”

“Uh-huh.”

This is why she doesn’t call Irene, Sherlock decides.)

———————

They don’t talk about it on the ride home. Or at home.

They just change out of their clothes, quiet and tired, and Sherlock opts to give Wato her privacy. Because of the whole fiancée thing. It was a good cover, holds more truth than Sherlock’s willing to voice, but Wato had froze at Irene’s words and the last thing Sherlock wants is to make her uncomfortable over something so foolish –

So Sherlock opts to sleep in her own room. No matter how long it takes her to fall asleep. No matter how much she tosses and turns and is still awake. No matter how she feels an emptiness at her side. No matter how much she pouts about it.

But then her door opens and Wato shuffles inside only to stop at Sherlock’s bed. She starts her sentence several times, rubbing a thumb over her palm – nervous habit – before she sighs and blurts out shyly, “Can’t sleep.”

And Sherlock’s made up her mind even before Wato said anything, only now she makes room for her with a goofy smile on her face, mostly hidden by the dark. She doesn’t care even if it isn’t.

They fall asleep within minutes.

———————

Mrs Hatano finds them during breakfast, which she made all by her lonesome because both Sherlock and Wato slept in. Except the coffee. There are exceptions and rules Sherlock’s willing to bend but even she has standards and Wato-made coffee cannot be replaced. She’s tried and the results were horrendous.

Mrs Hatano finds them with that excited look about her, a mischievous gleam in her eyes and Sherlock immediately knows she _knows_. Doesn’t matter who, doesn’t matter how. Mrs Hatano knows and she’s going to be a bother about it like she always is – except it’s not a bother at all and it’s actually nice and Sherlock didn’t know she missed someone other than her brother being a bother about things. And even then Mrs Hatano’s a bother in a different way.

“So, engaged are we?” She says in her voice where she tries not to be a bother. Predictably Wato’s head snaps up from her bowl, chopsticks nearly slip between her fingers and Sherlock masks her smile behind her cup.

“How did you know?”

“I have my sources.” Sherlock sneaks a glance at Wato, enjoying Wato’s suspicious pout, enjoying how it scrunches up her face. Too cute to be taken seriously, and Mrs Hatano waves her off, turns her knowing gaze to Sherlock. “It was about time.”

And she leaves without another word. And Sherlock can’t help but guffaw at the whole situation.

“Just so you know.” Wato spares a look Sherlock’s way, but returns to her breakfast. “I’m not agreeing to anything without a ring.”

Sherlock spits out her coffee.

“And there have to be proper dates before that,” Wato goes on like Sherlock’s not choking on her coffee. Because she’s not, but she needs time to process this information and dramatics are a good buffer. And perhaps patting her chest will dislodge the words long enough to ask:

“How about we start tonight?”

There. It’s out on the table. Out in the open. Served on a silver platter with three sets of cutlery and a steaming teapot and jasmine tea –

Wato looks up, face serious and the image vanishes. Then she raises her chopsticks, makes a circle with them and says, “It can’t be a case.”

It’s an odd sensation, trying to pout while your insides are practically vibrating from happiness and excitement. Worth cataloguing but Sherlock’s certain she’ll have plenty of time for that later. Now, she needs to enjoy breakfast and persuade Wato that cases are a completely acceptable type of date – _they’re the most interesting –_

You will forgive Sherlock’s lacklustre attempts at actually persuading Wato, for she’d rather enjoy Wato’s laughter and dubious looks at her attempts. They’re far more satisfying.

———————

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, according to the interwebs:
> 
> ->Red cardinal bird – beauty, vibrancy, nobility; a sign of you settling down in life with the person you love.  
> ->Gladiolus – strength of character; sincerity; generosity; natural Grace  
> ->Deep pink rose – thank you  
> ->Red rose – y’all know this one, lol
> 
> Also kudos to anyone who recognizes the 'miniature house with testament inside' job


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